


Premonition

by radiboyn



Series: Defect [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, seizure disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 20:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiboyn/pseuds/radiboyn
Summary: Spencer is alone in a police precinct when he realises he's going to have a seizure. He calls Hotch.





	Premonition

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't set in any particular series, but I did write it with short-haired Reid in mind, if anyone's interested.

It’s 4pm on a Thursday when he first feels it. 

He’s just finished a call with Garcia when a sudden, intense feeling of déjà vu sweeps over him, followed immediately by a surge of anxiety so strong his breath catches in his chest, winding him. For a horrifying minute, he scrabbles in his mind to work out what’s wrong but comes up with nothing, until it hits him with dizzying clarity: he’s going to have a seizure. 

A second wave of anxiety makes his stomach twist as the realisation sinks in. He’s alone in the precinct. He mentally maps out where the rest of the team are, trying to work out who to call, but his brain has gone foggy and uncoordinated and he can’t make any connections. 

_Hotch,_ he thinks, _call Hotch._ His unit chief will know what to do. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, and takes a few steadying breaths. He’s going to be fine. He just needs to tell Hotch everything he’s worked out so far, and then the case will be out of his hands. 

Hotch answers after two rings. 

_“You’re on speaker, Reid.”_

“Hotch, I think the victims might all be working on Ryecroft Avenue,” he says immediately, wasting no time. “It’s a street two miles from where you are that’s apparently well known for providing jobs off the record for people who don’t want to leave a paper trail. I had Garcia track the last CCTV sightings of the last three victims, and they all seem like they could be headed there before they disappear.”

_“We’ll check it out once we’re finished here. Good work. Is there anything else?”_

Reid wets his lips, clears his throat. “Could I, uh— could I talk to you by yourself for a minute?”

There’s a rustling in the background, followed by the bleep of a button that tells Reid he’s no longer on speaker. After a moment, Hotch’s voice sounds on the line. _“What is it?”_

“I don’t— I don’t feel very good?”

_“In what way?”_

He swallows hard, gripping the back of a chair as his vision shifts. “I think I might be about to have a seizure.”

_“Who are you with?”_

“Nobody.” Everybody else is in the field. He’s almost certain none of them have come back to the precinct yet. He makes a concerted effort to push away the dread that threatens to bubble up at the thought.

_“I’ll find out who’s nearest and send them to you. If you feel well enough, they’ll drive you back to the hotel. If not, they’ll stay with you. Does that sound okay?”_

“Yeah. Thanks. I’m okay, I think I have a while before it, uh— I just feel really off balance? I’m sorry I can’t keep working the case.”

_“Don’t worry about it. Get somewhere quiet, tell someone if you think you need to. You know what you’re doing.”_

“Yeah, Hotch. Thanks. Bye.”

_“Bye, Reid.”_

He drops his phone onto the table and wipes a hand across his face, feeling cool sweat beneath his fingers.

_Think,_ his mind tells him. _Make a plan._

He knows he has some time before it hits. He’s still coherent, can still stand and think with enough clarity to make some preparations. It’s rare for him to get a warning before a seizure, but he can recall a time it happened once, when he was 18. The odd feeling had come three-and-a-half hours before the seizure. That would give him roughly 3 hours left.

Still, he can’t be certain he won’t find himself unconscious on the precinct floor within the next five minutes, so he shuts the door of the little room he’s using, and pulls the blinds down across the small rectangular window in the door, giving himself the most privacy he can. He knows the isolation could be dangerous, but the last thing he wants is some well-meaning local calling an ambulance when he really doesn’t need it.

Once he’s satisfied he can’t be seen by anyone outside the room, he gets to work emptying his pockets of anything sharp or hard, including the FBI identity badge pinned to his left trouser pocket. He removes his gun and holster, setting both down on the table next to his bag, his hands shaking. He works on his clothing next, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

All he can do now is wait. He tries to work out who it is who’ll be coming to take him back to the hotel, but a sick feeling has arrived in the pit of his stomach, making it difficult to focus on anything but breathing. He sits in the plush chair provided to him when he’d first arrived this morning and closes his eyes, willing the nausea down. 

He startles when the door opens suddenly, his vision whiting out momentarily as he opens his eyes. 

He squints at the figure in the doorway. “Rossi?”

“Hey, kiddo,” Rossi’s voice replies. His physical form falls into place soon after as Reid’s vision returns to normal. “Looks like you got me to look after you.”

He laughs halfheartedly, looking down at his hands. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. How are you feeling?” 

Reid sits up properly, stretching his neck. All his muscles feel _wrong,_ somehow, though he couldn’t put it into words. “Uh, okay? I don’t really know.” 

Rossi gives him a grimace in sympathy. “Well enough to go back to the hotel?”

“Probably. I don’t know.” Reid wipes a hand across his face, feeling grubby. “I feel really nauseous.”

Rossi’s expression twists. “Maybe a car ride isn’t the best idea.”

“No, no, I can manage,” Reid insists. He winces. “I’d really rather not be here.”

Rossi’s expression doesn’t show any of the pity that Reid doesn’t want, but instead conveys nothing but unwavering understanding. “I get it, kid. Come on then. Can you walk?”

“Yeah. I’m a little dizzy, though.”

“I’ll get your stuff. You just take your time. I’m parked just round the corner.”

Reid pushes himself to standing, his expression contorting as he works to keep his lunch down. Rossi pretends not to notice, busying himself with putting everything from Reid’s pockets into the younger agent’s messenger bag. Once he’s satisfied Reid isn’t going to immediately keel over, he shoulders the bag and looks back over at him.

“Ready to go?”

Reid nods. “Ready.”

By the time they reach the car, Reid is pale and sweating. “God,” he murmurs as he settles into his seat, leaning his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. 

“Do you have any water?” Rossi asks as he buckles himself up.

Reid shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

They get all of three minutes into the journey before Rossi starts to really worry. “Reid,” he glances over at Reid’s unmoving form. “Talk to me, kiddo.”

“I’m fine,” Reid says weakly, keeping his eyes closed. “I feel sick.”

“Need me to pull over?” Rossi asks, worry churning his stomach. 

“No. Just— back to the hotel. Please. I really am fine. This is just…” he gestures vaguely, “…ictal nausea.”

“Remind me what part of that is supposed to convince me you’re fine,” Rossi grumbles, if only to keep Reid talking.

“Because it just means I _feel_ sick, not that I’m going to _be_ sick. It’s just a warning. And I’m still lucid.”

The drive is thankfully short, and it isn’t long before Rossi is pulling into one of the temporary designated FBI parking spaces at the front of the hotel. 

He walks behind Reid up to his room, shadowing him closely, ready to spring forward if Reid suddenly falls. But they make it up the two flights of stairs without any problems, Rossi complaining about broken elevators as they go. 

As soon as they cross the threshold into the hotel room, Rossi dumps Reid’s messenger bag on the desk, opening it and rooting around inside. 

Reid snorts. “Privacy?” he manages, bending down to retrieve some sweatpants and a pyjama t-shirt from his go-bag.

“Got something to hide? I’m just looking for your medication.” 

“Don’t carry it,” Reid sways as he rights himself, his vision blacking out as he returns to standing. “I’m… I don’t have any… emergency…”

Rossi looks up just in time to catch the stumble that has Reid crashing to the ground. Rossi jerks into immediate action, lunging towards the bed to retrieve a pillow to cushion Reid’s head. 

Reid’s muscles tighten as the clonic phase of the seizure starts. “Okay, here we go. It’s okay,” Rossi reassures calmly as he glances at his watch, making a note of the time. “You’re alright. It’s okay.” 

He picks up Reid’s pyjamas and throws them behind him, out of the way. He’s grateful that Reid had thought to unbutton his shirt as he watches the muscles in his neck twist and strain; he feels helpless as Reid’s neck tightens and turns so his face is half-pressed into the pillow. His shoulders twitch and jerk as quiet, jarring sounds punch out of him, his chest and lungs and throat contracting in rhythm. 

“You’re doing so good, Reid,” Rossi intones, unsure of what else he can do. His hands hover above Reid’s quivering form, hesitant to touch, aware of the dangers of restraining him in any way. He’s glad that Reid has fallen in the empty floor space and not next to the solid wooden bedframes a metre to his left. 

Rossi winces as Reid’s head bangs against the floor repeatedly. The pillow is shielding him from doing any major damage, but the thought of Reid’s brain shaking in his skull is enough to give Rossi a headache. 

A wet cry tears from Reid’s throat, and, as quickly as it had started, the seizure stops. 

Rossi returns his gaze to his watch. At the three minute mark, Reid is trembling slightly, his hands clenching and spasming sporadically. By minute four, Reid is completely still, his watery breaths coming evenly. 

This part—the waiting game, waiting for Reid to return to consciousness—is, strangely, the worst part for Rossi. He can deal with Reid fitting violently, because at least he has a purpose _(time it, make sure he isn’t hurting himself, maintain his airway),_ but now all he can do is sit silently with his own worry, waiting. 

The pang of relief he feels when Reid finally opens his eyes is hard to ignore. “Welcome back, kid.”

Reid doesn’t respond in any way, his eyes only roaming dazedly, a small frown creasing his brow. 

“Hey. Reid,” Rossi calls, leaning over the younger man slightly. “Look at me.”

Eventually, and with what appears to be great effort, Reid’s eyes land upon Rossi. His mouth opens and closes, and his frown worsens as he turns his body slightly and feels the floor beneath him. 

“Yeah, I know. You had the choice of two beds, and yet you still thought the floor was a better choice.”

The joke doesn’t really land, but Rossi can see some lucidity return to Reid’s eyes. Reid lifts his head slightly from the pillow and swallows hard, looking back at Rossi. 

“Hotel?” he croaks. 

“Uh-huh,” Rossi confirms. 

Reid lets out a drawn-out sigh, his head flopping back own onto the pillow. 

“Think we could get you into bed?” Rossi asks.

At Reid’s nod, Rossi helps him into a sitting position. They wait a moment for Reid’s fatigued mind to catch up, the younger agent sitting with his chin against his chest, eyes closer, before eventually he nods, lifting his head again. Rossi supports him as he stands shakily, his legs threatening to give way under him as he takes the two steps needed to get him next to one of the beds. 

He flops down onto the mattress as soon as he’s in range. He immediately spreads himself on top of the covers, face-down, starfish-style, his eyes closing the moment his head hits the covers. 

Rossi retrieves the pillow from the floor, and taps Reid’s right shoulder. “Hey. Head up.” Once Reid complies, lifting is head a fraction, Rossi slips the pillow underneath it. 

He only steps out to make a call once he’s satisfied Reid is sleeping comfortably, and after an internal debate about whether it’s worth wrestling him into some more comfortable clothes (it’s not, he decides). 

Once Hotch is in the loop, he returns to Spencer’s hotel room, letting himself in quietly. Not that it makes a difference; Reid is sleeping like the dead, a strand of unruly hair dancing on the pillow with his slow, even breaths. And he’s still pale. Rossi knows it’ll take a while before he’s back to his normal colour, both literally and in character. 

After a moment of watching the genius sleep, Rossi settles at the desk where he’d left Reid’s messenger bag open, abandoned in the urgency of the moment. He closes it up and sets it aside for when Reid wakes. Until then, while the young man sleeps soundly, recovering, he has a case to focus on.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @radiboyn!


End file.
